


Because "AU" Literally Means "Gold"...

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 10,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Hahaha, periodic table puns are HILARIOUS.)</p><p>Anyway, here is a collection of ASOIAF AU drabbles, written in response to a series of Tumblr prompts.  They feature many different alternate settings and many different ships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cersei/Ellaria/Oberyn: Differences

In the dim candlelight, she sees them as a blur of like colors- hair black as samite, skin dark as bronze, lips red as blood.  The woman trails a long, elegant finger over Cersei’s jaw, her touch feather-light;  _she thinks me delicate, porcelain and spun gold…this baseborn creature doesn’t understand what it means to be a Lion of the Rock…_

Her lips are hard on Ellaria’s, punishing- she straddles her hips and sinks her incisors into the dark skin of the woman’s long neck, the fragrance of spices and exotic flowers filling her nostrils; behind her, the dark prince sprinkles alien kisses down the nape of her neck (cool and hot all at once, nothing like she’s ever known, nothing like she’s ever wanted…), and a peculiar chill prickles up her spine.


	2. Jaime/Sansa: New Year's Eve 1929

“Do you like it?” 

She coughs into her glass of smuggled gin- it’s good stuff, straight off the boat from England- and whips her head around to stare at him (she’s skittish, this one, like a child who’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar).

Blue eyes open wide when she recognizes him, and he takes a step closer- a blinding smile, a hand soft on the small of her back- and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear; she wears her hair too long to be fashionable, but he cannot help but think that the abundant curls of red suit her better than any sleek bob could do.


	3. Cersei/Sansa: Ballet School (Part 1 of 3)

_Her feet are exquisite._ Although she ought to be dividing her attention equally among all members of the class, Cersei cannot top staring at Sansa’s flawless feet- tiny, with high arches, well-supported by supple ankles.  

They run the next bit of choreography, and Joffrey lifts Sansa into an arabesque- her white arms and white legs extend in perfect time, her full lips spread into a soft smile ( _she knows she did well, she knows how perfect she is…_ ), and Cersei knows not whether the burning in her blood comes from pride or rage or desire or some strange combination of them all.


	4. Jaime/Sansa: Ballet School (Part 2 of 3)

He hates coming here.  As he pushes the door open with one shoulder and stalks down the hallway, Jaime silently curses Cersei for asking him to meet her at the school; she  _knows_  how little he likes it.  As he walks past a series of studios, he feels the eyes on him- slack jaws, admiring stares, soft whispers- “That’s Jaime Lannister, he was one of the best dancers the corps has ever seen…no, the best, until-”  

He turns his head and glares sharply enough at the little storyteller that she gives a frightened peep and falls silent.

When he reaches the studio closest to Cersei’s office, he finds the door half open.  A perfunctory glance within reveals a tall, redhaired girl at the barre.  He notices her feet straight away-  _beautiful, beautiful feet._ This must be the girl, the one Cersei says will be the prima in a few years- _Sophie? Sarah? Something like that…_

She dips into a deep plie in first position before shifting into second- her hips and shoulders are perfectly aligned, the lines and angles of her body are beyond reproach.  And there’s a satisfaction in her blue eyes; she knows very well how good she is.  

A wicked, inspired fancy compels Jaime to enter the room and approach the girl at the barre.  She freezes in position, her eyes widening when she recognizes him- he smiles at her before placing his hands on her hips and guiding them up.

“Your alignment is off,” he tells her, and he nearly laughs at the knitting of her brows, the defiance and confusion writ across her pretty face.  But he only tightens his grip on her and guides her down into another plie, her straight back brushing his chest as she rises to standing.

“Better,” he says, giving her hips a little squeeze before exiting the studio and knocking on Cersei’s office door.  


	5. Robb/Roslin: Ballet School (Part 3 of 3)

Robb tosses his car keys in the air and catches them in his other hand as he taps his foot and whistles some stupid song he’d heard on the radio earlier that day.  Sansa had said she’d be done with practice a half-hour ago, and yet here he is, still waiting for her.  He slips a hand into his pocket and finds some change there; he wonders whether there’s a decent vending machine in this building, but then laughs to himself-  _ballet dancers don’t eat._

A soft whimper from a nearby hallway catches his attention.  He turns a corner and sees a skinny girl sitting on the floor, rubbing her swollen-looking ankle.  

“Are you all right?” he calls out.  The girl turns her head to look at him; she has a small face, with delicate features and huge brown eyes.  

“I..I’m fine,” she says as she begins to stand- but then her ankle wobbles, and she falls back to the ground with a shriek.  

“I think it’s twisted,” Robb tells her, taking a few hesitant steps down the hall.

“Oh, God…I’m gonna be in so much trouble if Ms. Lannister finds out…she won’t let me dance in the show, and then Dad will kill me…” Her eyes, round as saucers, fill up with tears, and before he knows it, Robb finds himself at her side.

“Don’t try to move yourself…here, I’ve got you…” He guides her thin arms around his neck and lifts her up; she’s tiny, probably weighing even less than his little sister Arya.  

“There’s an ice machine down that way- maybe it’ll help…”  She looks down at the ground, her cheeks blushing bright red.  Finally, she turns her face up and gives him a misty smile.  ”Thank you.”

“What’s your name?” he asks as he bends down to grab her ballet shoes before heading down to the ice machine.

“It’s Roslin.”

“Hey, Roslin.  I’m Robb.”  He can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket- probably Sansa, wondering where he is.  But he ignores it for now- he’s got something more important to do.


	6. Jaime/Cersei, Jaime/Sansa: Women's Suffrage Movement

“Father will be fit to be tied if he finds out,” Jaime drawls with a sideways grin, his smile only widening when his sister snatches the hand-painted signs from him with a glare.  

“There’s no need for him  **to** find out, is there?” He cocks his eyebrows and waits for her expression to soften before dropping a kiss on her cheek and nudging her in the direction of the group of women awaiting her in the wagon; she flashes him a dazzling smile and dashes off, thrusting her signs into the waiting arms of a delicately-pretty redhead- the girl struggles beneath the weight, and Jaime helps her balance them before offering a hand to lift her into the wagon- the girl blushes, Cersei’s lips twist, and the wagon full of suffragettes begins to roll down the road toward town.    
  



	7. Ned/Cersei: Ancient Egypt

Cersei, Queen of Upper and Lower Egypt, Daughter of the Two Rams, Mistress of Sedge and Bee, narrows her green eyes as she stares down at the manacled tribesman at her feet.  His people have taken the eastern river delta, claiming more and more territory at the northern reaches of the Kingdom- “No need to worry,” her brother-husband claims with a toss of golden hair and flashing of white teeth, “Just a group of restless sheep-herders and savages”- but then, that’s always Jaime’s way, shrugging troubles aside, leaving them for another day.

“What is it that you want?” she asks the filthy, bearded creature- his eyes are brighter than she expects, and grey as the stones that line the northern riverbanks- he bares his teeth, and she finds them sharp and white as her own- he speaks in a snarl that makes the fine hairs on her arms stand on end in a not-entirely-unpleasant way:

“Justice.”


	8. Jaime/Cersei: Secret Marriage

The godswood in King’s Landing is little more than a courtyard, really; just a small patch of earth surrounded by slim weirwoods, hardly the dense, lush thicket she’d seen in the pages of Father’s atlas.  But it would serve well enough- she clasps Jaime’s hands, smiling at the warmth of his fingers, the slight slick of sweat that dampens his palms- she closes her eyes, and she knows he does the same- and this seems to be all it takes, all this ridiculous Northern ritual requires: two people standing together in the godswood, breathing the same air, silently pledging their troth before the heavens.

They open their eyes in tandem, and she reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss; tomorrow she will stand in the Sept of Baelor and marry Robert Baratheon in the sight of the Seven…but in the eyes of the mysterious, ancient gods still worshipped in the distant north, she and Jaime are joined for life, and that will have to be enough.


	9. Tywin/Sansa: College, Professor/Student

Professor Tywin Lannister gestures to the seat on the other side of the desk, and he waits (posture perfectly straight, hands folded on the tabletop over her recently-graded paper) for the girl to lower herself into the chair (her eyes are wide and frightened and it excites him more than he cares to admit) before sliding the thesis (covered in red marks, like blood dripping from countless wounds) across the table to her.

“Miss Stark,” he begins, gold-green eyes unblinking and cold, “I asked you to write an analysis of an American literary theorist.  Can you explain why you chose to blatantly disregard the assignment?”

Sansa Stark’s nostrils flare, and he is surprised by the flicker of defiance that appears in her blue eyes.  She shifts in her chair and shrugs her shoulders, but she does not look away from him as she replies, “She might not have been an Emerson or a Thoreau, but I believe that Emily Dickinson’s poetry tells us more about the potential of American literature than any essay could possibly do…Professor.”

Tywin narrows his eyes at her, but she does not look away, and he catches another bright flash in those pretty eyes as she nudges the red-stained paper back in his direction.


	10. Jaime/Cersei: 1960s America

They aren’t far from the commune, Oberyn says- just another day’s drive, maybe even less.  They park the van in a field for the night, and Oberyn and Ellaria head out to the woods with a little parcel of mushrooms and a woven blanket- they won’t be back till morning.

Jaime and Cersei spread the rest of the blankets on the floor at the back of the van, and as soon as Oberyn and Ellaria disappear from view, they pull at each other’s clothes, unable to feel skin on skin quickly enough, long golden hair meshing together, beaded necklaces tangling in each other, hungry mouths and desperate hands connecting, clinging, melding into one.

They lie together afterwards, kicking the doors to the trunk open to let the cool evening air blow across their naked bodies.  Oberyn took the keys with him, so they can’t listen to the van radio, but Jaime thought to bring the little transistor from the house before they left.  The reception here is weak- she thinks the song playing is by Bob Dylan, but she can’t be sure with all the static.  But it hardly matters- she listens instead to Jaime’s heart, beating in perfect time with her own, and she tries to crystallize this moment, to freeze it in her memory, that she will always remember what it felt like to be free.    
  



	11. Cersei/Sansa: French Revolution Era

The Queen reclines on her pillows, her powdered wig placed off to the side, her abundant golden hair cascading down her shoulders.  She opens her green eyes just a sliver, just enough to see the little Marquise fluttering about the chamber like a vibrant butterfly, all blue and red and white and beautiful.

Sansa accepts a tray of petit fours from a maidservant and dismisses the plain girl before carefully arranging the little cakes on the porcelain dish Cersei likes best.  Cersei pushes herself up into a seated position, not even troubling to arrange the skirts that have pushed their way up past her knees when she summons the Marquise to her side, bidding her to bring the cakes.

She opens her mouth and raises her golden brows expectantly.  The girl blushes, just a little, and something curious sparkles in her blue eyes as she takes a petit four between her little fingers and lifts it to the Queen’s lips.  

Cersei finishes the cake in three bites, then takes Sansa’s white hand in her own.  She sucks the girl’s fingertips into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the sugar-coated skin, and she smiles when she feels the Marquise tremble.


	12. Gregor and Sansa: Ancient Greece

Sansa walks through the atrium, marvelling not for the first time over how large, how grand, how perfect everything is here.  Joffrey’s family is the wealthiest in Athens, and she feels a little shiver of delight whenever she imagines herself as his wife, living in this beautiful palace with her beautiful husband and his beautiful mother.  

She crosses the atrium and leans against the railing of the gallery, looking down onto the front courtyard.  One of the Lannister men- Gregor, the huge one with the grim face- inspects the newest crop of slaves delivered from the village.  Sansa feels her mouth twitch in another smile; they’re so wealthy, this family, that they can afford several times the number of slaves than most Athenian aristocrats.  

The smile begins to wane when Gregor grabs a slave girl’s arm and pulls her to him, shouting obscenities in her face before cracking her across the jaw with the back of his hand.  The girl weeps and whimpers, and the enormous guardsman kicks her over and over and over until she shudders.  When she falls silent, her body twitching like a dying spider’s, he draws his leg up until his boot hovers over her skull, then brings it crashing down-

Sansa shrieks, and Gregor turns his head to glower in her direction.  A cold sweat clings to her skin- she looks down to see the girl’s body splayed in a pool of blood and viscera.  And then she turns and runs as fast as she can, heart thumping in her ears, bile creeping into her throat.


	13. Catelyn/Brienne: World War II

As little as she likes to admit it, as disloyal as it makes her feel, Catelyn finds that she appreciates the chance to leave the house, the chance to do something for the war effort besides sit by the radio and twiddle her thumbs, hoping and praying for good news.

There’s no need to worry- Sansa’s more than capable of looking after the little ones, and even Arya promised to be on her best behavior while Mother went to the factory.  

She works on the assembly line, helping to fashion canteens to send overseas.  It’s tedious work, but it’s active, it’s something to do.  She’s quick and efficient, and the foreman (fore _woman,_ she’s a woman, however much she resembles a man) praises her efforts in an earnest way that brings her a pride she hasn’t felt in years.

The line halts early one day; there’s news from Germany, and the women scramble to get to a radio.  Catelyn wants to be home; if there’s word from overseas, word of Ned and Robb, she needs to be with the kids when they hear it.  But the bus won’t come for another hour, and she hasn’t a car…

“Do you need a ride home?”  She turns around and encounters the kind blue eyes of Brienne, the enormous forewoman.  

“I don’t want to put you out-” she begins, but Brienne shakes her head.

“No trouble at all- I’ve got nowhere I need to be.” She says it in a blunt, plain tone, but Catelyn doesn’t miss the shadow that passes across her pretty eyes.

“You’re very kind, thank you.”  As she climbs into the passenger seat of Brienne’s car, she asks the forewoman if she’d like to join the Starks for dinner.  Brienne’s face splits into a wide smile ( _she really is attractive when she smiles…_ ), and she accepts the invitation before starting the engine and driving down the road.


	14. Aegon/Sansa: Wedding Night

Aegon cups her face in his hands, so gentle that she wants to scream-  _don’t, don’t, I’m not that girl anymore…_

It angers her, how beautiful he is; she has to steel herself over and over, has to constantly remind herself not to be fooled, not to give in-  _it’s nothing but a lie, beauty is nothing but a lie._

She married him for security, for strategy.  She’d get the protection Petyr and Harry and Sweetrobin couldn’t give her, and he’d get…she isn’t really sure  _what_ he wants from her, if she forces herself to be honest.  Yes, she’s beautiful, but a man like Aegon could have as many comely women as he likes without needing to take them for his wives.  

The way he looks at her- violet eyes reverent, worshipful- it makes her anxious, confused, vulnerable in a way she hasn’t felt in years.  

She feels her restless muscles pulsing, and she tries to grain away from him.  But then he kisses her.

His lips are soft and so, so warm, and his fingers rub gentle circles on her scalp.  And she forgets herself; she kisses him back, her fingertips brushing over his fine silver hair.  The cynical voice at the back of her mind cries out-  _there are no happy endings, life isn’t a song…_

“Alayne,” he whispers, and her heart drops into her stomach, cold and hard and encased in steel.


	15. Tywin/Catelyn: Tudor England

She comes to the cathedral every day, the newly-widowed Lady Stark.  Attendance at the Catholic masses has waned of late, what with the Great Matter of the King and his marriage, but Cardinal Lannister notices her constant presence, her steadfast loyalty to her worship.  

She kneels before the altar, and he cannot help but notice how the light streams through the stained glass and streaks her red hair with a vibrant palette of colors- blues, greens..(even golds…).  Long, slim fingers brush her rosary beads, and she begins the prayer:

_Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine: et lux perpetua luceat ei._

Tywin realizes, to his embarrassment, that he mouths the words along with her.


	16. Ned/Cersei: Sailor and Mermaid

At first, he thinks that he must be imagining things.  The fog is thick, the hour is late, and his eyes feel so very heavy, even as he forces himself to keep the jib straight.  Ned blinks, then stares out into the darkness- and there she is again.  

She watches him from atop a seaweed-covered rock, her golden hair flying into the breeze.  He feels his jaw drop at the sight of her tail- rich crimson scales, flecked with gold.  Her breasts are bare, and her full lips curve into a smile.

He’d heard tell of mermaids, but in all the stories, the maidens of the sea would sing to lure their human prey into the depths.  This creature makes no sound at all.   She merely stares at him, her green eyes sharp and arresting, as if daring him to approach, challenging him to come closer-

Ned cries out in frustration when he loses his grip on the jib; the sail sinks down, and the ship tilts precariously.  As he rushes to grab hold again, he hears a silvery laugh behind him- cold, mocking, beautiful.

He glances back at the rock, but she is nowhere to be seen.


	17. Jaime/Arthur Dayne: Vietnam War

The rain pours down in sheets, drenching the earth, making a mockery of the makeshift tents they’ve made out of their plastic tarps.  Jaime curls into himself, wrapping his arms around his knees, but it’s no use- the chill squeezes at his bones, the dampness seeping in through his soaked uniform, through the leather of his boots, through the scrap of plastic he wraps around his shoulders.

He slips his hand into his pocket and nearly sobs when he realizes that the water has deteriorated the letter he’d received from Cersei earlier in the week.  When he withdraws his hand, the paper clings to his fingers in illegible bits.

Tears stand in his eyes- he’s so cold, and so wet, and now he’s so, so alone…

“Lannister.”  Lieutenant Dayne slides under the tent and takes a seat beside Jaime.  ”You leave all your dry stuff at base camp?”

“This was only supposed to be a day-long patrol,” Jaime begins in a defiant snap before hastily adjusting his tone- “…Sir.”

Dayne doesn’t chastise him; he only smiles, violet eyes clearer than they’ve any right to be.  He digs around in his rucksack and pulls out a pair of dry woolen socks.

“Put these on- they’ll help with the chill.”

He claps his hand on Jaime’s shoulder, and the younger man can’t help but return his smile. 


	18. Robb/Roslin: Newlywed King and Queen in the North

Roslin shivers, her teeth chattering together- she thinks sometimes that all she ever does is shiver, here in this frozen, icy, forbidding place.  The fire in her hearth blazes, but she can scarcely feel it unless she sits on the fur rug right in front, so close that the cinders stain her knees.

She hears soft footfalls behind her, and she turns her head to see Grey Wind approaching her with surprisingly shy steps.  Roslin smiles and extends her hand to the great beast, and he eagerly rubs the top of his head against her palm.  They had dogs at home, and while her sisters had often been afraid of the big creatures, Roslin liked to spend afternoons in the kennels, playing with the puppies, brushing the long-haired dogs for fleas, sneaking duck gizzards from the kitchens for the hounds to eat.

“He likes you,” a voice calls from the doorway.  Roslin blushes from forehead to toe as her husband ( _my **husband,** for all he seems a stranger to_ me…) takes a step into the chamber.  His handsome face spreads into a smile, and she feels her heart flutter a little faster.

In a sudden and uncharacteristic display of affection, Grey Wind nuzzles Roslin’s face and bestows a sloppy lick upon her cheek.  Robb’s blue eyes twinkle as he laughs, and Roslin thinks that she’s never heard a sound more lovely.  


	19. Robb/Roslin: Mermaid

The water is cold in the shallows, and the chill is enough to deter most of the sailors from venturing there.  Roslin likes it for that reason- she can see without being seen.

And so she finds herself startled by the arrival of the young man with the auburn curls, who shucks off his breeches and tunic and wades into the icy, brackish waves without so much as a flinch.  She grabs hold of a nearby rock and braces herself against it, every muscle in her tail striving to stay still, lest he hear her splash.

The water clings to his skin- pale in the moonlight, with a light dusting of freckles, like spots on a crab shell.  He never so much as shivers- it’s as if he likes the cold, as if he relishes the feel of the sea wind on his wet skin.  

He turns his head, and blue eyes meet brown.  He opens his mouth to gasp his surprise, and she plunges headfirst into the water, a heaviness in her heart as her tail propels her farther and farther away.


	20. Tywin/Catelyn: Tudor England (Part II)

When Tywin orders the priest aside and steps into the confessional himself, the young man blinks with surprise; the cardinal rarely troubles himself with confessions.  The only ones he would hear with any regularity were the king’s (on His Grace’s insistence, and Tywin knew the reason behind that, but the king hasn’t shown his face in the cathedral for weeks, anyway).  

But today, he takes his place behind the screen and waits for her to slip into the opposite booth, to smooth her billowing skirts down and remove the veil from her face before she speaks.  Lady Stark’s posture is flawless, and if she clings to her rosary beads a little too tightly, that is the only outward sign of any anxiety or strife.

She whispers, soft as a summer breeze: “Ignosce mihi, pater, quia peccavi.”  A _bsolve me, Father, for I have sinned._

Lady Stark confesses her fears for her elder children- courtiers all, and in danger of following the king’s blasphemy.  She speaks of her grief, the maw of despair that consumes her whenever she thinks on her loneliness, on the beloved husband who will never return-

(Tywin understands this more than he would like- phantom faces from another life float before his eyes, golden hair and green eyes and rosy cheeks and a soft, lilting laugh-  _Joanna…_ )

At the last, Lady Stark tells of her husband’s bastard, sent off to France after her husband’s death.  He feels a hot flash of indignation of her behalf for the disgrace she has suffered, keeping a baseborn child in her own house, raising him alongside her own children.

She reaches up to brush a curl of russet hair behind her ear- pale and perfect, like the shells on the seashore of his childhood home.  And then a silence, far too long to be comfortable-

Tywin collects himself, assigns her the necessary prayers.  Once her tapered back, clothed in a velveteen cape, exits the cathedral, he barks at the insipid monsignor to fetch him some communion wine.  


	21. Aegon/Sansa: Modern Setting, Overprotective Big Brother

“The hell is going on with his hair?”

Sansa turns her head to follow Robb’s stare to the driveway, and she nearly chokes on her own laughter.  Aegon  _said_  he wanted to dye his hair, but she never expected it to be neon blue.  She squints against the sun and leans in-  _looks like he went through with the nose-piercing, too._

 _  
_“Sansa.  No.”  Robb crosses his arms across his chest, bright splotches of red appearing on the skin under his beard.  ”This guy’s too old for you, anyway…and now he looks like he’s singing backup for the Sex Pistols.”

“Who are the Sex Pistols?” she asks with an indignant sniff.  Robb just continues to glower, shifting his focus back and forth between her and Aegon’s convertible.

“I think Dad should come out here…you’re only sixteen, he should meet whoever’s taking you out…”

“Robb, please.”  Sansa grabs hold of her brother’s elbow and stares up at him with wide blue eyes, jutting her lip out in that little pout she’s used since they were kids.  ”Please don’t embarrass me.  Aegon’s a sweet guy, he really is…please?”

Robb twists his lips and flares his nostrils, but he eventually nods. “Fine.  But if you aren’t home by midnight, me and Jon are driving up to campus to look for you.  And you know that getting caught by Jon is nearly as bad as getting caught by Dad.”

Before Robb has a chance to re-consider, Sansa wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes tight.  ”You’re the best!” she laughs, turning on her heel and sprinting to Aegon’s car.

He winks at her, and she can’t help but think that the blue hair complements his violet eyes very, very well.  


	22. Catelyn/Ned/Ashara: Modern Day

Catelyn climbs the narrow staircase to the upstairs laundry room, silently cursing to herself as she trips over one of Robb’s cleats.  She kicks the shoe down the flight and finds a basket; she’s just begun to unload the dryer when she hears a childish voice from the floor above.

She presses her lips into a straight line- she’s told the children to stay out of the attic more times than she can count, but that only seems to make their clandestine visits all the more alluring.  She opens the door and starts up the wobbly stairs, pausing before she reaches the landing.

Robb sits crosslegged on the dusty plank floor, a picture frame in his hand.  Jon kneels behind him, reaching over his shoulder to wipe dust from the glass.

“Whoa, Dad looks so different…” Robb giggles, but only for a moment- soon, his auburn brows knit together with confusion.  ”…but who’s this lady with him?”

Jon’s grey eyes ( _just like Ned’s…)_ cloud with an intensity far too profound for a child of ten years.  His response is quiet, but Catelyn hears the murmur just the same:

“I think…I think that’s my mother.”

Her heart clenches in her ribcage, and she darts down the stairs and back to the laundry room, where she loudly calls for Robb to come down and get his clean soccer uniform.

That weekend, when Benjen makes the drive down from Maine to visit, Catelyn hands him a box of photographs.  They take up too much space in the attic, she says- there’s little enough storage up there as it is.  His house has that big basement; couldn’t he keep it there for them?  

A few days later, she catches Jon slumping away from the attic door, a dejected expression on his solemn face, and a tiny pang of guilt burns in her chest.


	23. Jaime/Lysa: Marriage

Lysa pities Cat sometimes.  True, her sister was always the favorite- the pretty one, the clever one, the one worth fighting for.  And yet, here they are: precious Catelyn sent to the icy North with an equally glacial husband, while little Lysa (silly Lysa, insignificant Lysa…) holds court at Casterly Rock.

It is Lysa who drapes herself in priceless jewels and costly silks each day, Lysa who dines on delicacies from lands far away, on rich meats and creamy sauces, Lysa who is wedded to the handsomest knight- nay, the handsomest  _man-_  in the Seven Kingdoms.

Yes, she really does feel sorry for Cat.  And yet, as they sit together at the High Table at King’s Landing, raising their glasses in yet another toast in honor of the Crown Prince’s birth, Lysa can’t help but notice the pretty glow in Catelyn’s cheeks, the softness of her body after the birth of her healthy son, the way her husband (stiff, awkward, cold Ned Stark) rests his arm on the back of her chair and brings his lips close to her face to whisper in her ear.  Catelyn smiles, and her smile is radiant as ever, and in spite of her absurdly-expensive brocade gown, her collar of gold and rubies, the sight of her stunning husband attending so carefully to his own beloved sister…she feels the familiar sting of envy, piercing into her stomach like a knife and lingering at her side like an old, vindictive friend.

Jaime never comes to her chambers while they’re in King’s Landing, but when they return to Casterly Rock, he slips into her bed, his body hard and muscular and perfect.  And yet, as he fits himself against her and takes her from behind (just like another boy used to do, so very long ago…), she finds herself remembering the warm twinkle in Ned Stark’s eyes as he took Catelyn’s hand under the banquet table, and the pain in her gut lodges deeper and deeper.  


	24. Tywin/Sansa: College, Professor/Student (Part II)

“Miss Stark.  A word, please.”

Margaery shoots Sansa a sympathetic glance before exiting the lecture hall, and the red-haired girl catches herself biting her lip with nerves as she approaches Professor Lannister’s desk.

The American lit professor dresses much better than any other member of the English faculty- perfectly-tailored suits, an expensive wristwatch.  And yet he wears his facial hair in a peculiar, outdated style that makes him look like a grizzled lion, ready to pounce.

He hands her a packet of stapled paper; it’s the theory assignment he’d critiqued last week, the one that she stubbornly refrained from editing (she just handed a clean version of the original in on the due date).  

Sansa winces a little, bracing herself for the low mark she’s sure she’ll see at the top-  

No marks, no corrections- nothing but an “A” written in bold, red ink.

“Oh!” she exclaims before she can stop herself; her cheeks immediately flood with a warm blush.

“Yes.  'Oh'.”  Professor Lannister straightens his already-erect posture and narrows his gold-green eyes in a look of appraisal.  ”You’re a strong writer, Miss Stark, and stubborn to a fault.  But, luckily for you, I place a great deal of value on confidence and conviction.”

He falls silent for a time, but continues to stare at her- Sansa shifts her weight from her heels to the balls of her feet…she feels her palms sweating…

Finally, the professor continues.  ”I need an undergraduate research assistant to help me with a book that I intend to publish at the end of the year.”

Another pause, another bead of sweat forming at Sansa’s hairline and threatening to trickle down her brow.

“Well?”

“I…”  Professor Lannister raises one silver-gold eyebrow, and Sansa pushes through her trepidation to say, “Yes. Thank you, Professor.”


	25. Cersei/Jaime/Sansa: Polygamy

“This was not supposed to happen.”

Sansa looks up from the blanket she’s knitting to glance at her sister-wife.  Cersei folds her hands over the slight swell of her belly- she’s only a few months gone with child- and her beautiful face sinks into a deep frown.  And those eyes- those green eyes, bright as the scales on a dragonfly, flicker and smolder.

She’s been so cross since the midwife shared the news.  The Prophet kissed her head and called it a blessing, Jaime sat at her side with his arm around her all night- and still she scowled and pouted like an angry child.

Sansa knows better than to say anything.  She merely looks back down at the blanket, which drapes over her far-more-swollen belly (she’ll bear this child any day now, she’s sure of it…) as she waits for Cersei to continue.

And she does, as Sansa knew she would.  ”I bore him three already…it’s what we married you for, isn’t it?”

An irrational pang of guilt thrums at Sansa’s heart-  _I’m carrying a child, I’ve done my part…_ And she knows that no good will come of speaking…and yet, when she looks over at Cersei, sitting straight-backed in the great wooden rocking chair, all but trembling with beautiful, violent rage-

She struggles to rise from her own smaller chair, and she crosses the room to take her sister-wife’s hands.  ”W-will you pray for our babes with me, sister?”

Cersei’s red lips stretch into a sneer as her tapered fingers stroke over the thin bones of Sansa’s wrists.  ”You’re so perfect, aren’t you?  Praying.”


	26. Lannister Family: Modern-Day, Doctors

Jaime reaches for the decanter of scotch and pours Cersei another glass.  She’s seething, reaching for her secret stash of cigarettes (a terrible habit for an oncologist; she must be  _really_ pissed), her hands trembling as she tries to light one.

He gently takes the lighter from her and holds it up until her cigarette burns red at the tip.  

Her iPhone rests on the side table, and when he glances at the screen, he sees five missed calls from Dad.  This malpractice suit has risen straight to the top, and as head of the hospital board, Dad must be up to his ears in bureaucratic bullshit tonight.

“I just…I don’t know what else I could have done, you know?”  She takes an inhale so deep that she coughs on the smoke; he nudges the scotch toward her, and she sips soundly.  

“I didn’t lie to anyone, I  _told_ her that it was a risky procedure, but she wanted to try it anyway…I mean, this is cancer treatment.  People die, it happens, and it isn’t necessarily anyone’s fault…”

Jaime moves to sit on the loveseat beside his sister, and he places his hand on her back, rubbing it in gentle circles.  Cersei drops her head onto his shoulder, still puffing away at her Marlboro Light, and he silently congratulates himself for choosing military medicine.  There’s camaraderie in the army, and lawsuits of this type are few and far between.  The stakes are high, but in a different way, and it’s the best fit for Jaime all around.

He feels a buzzing in his pocket, and he pulls out his phone.  It’s a text from Tyrion; his little brother just received an offer to go down to Quantico and work as a consulting psychiatrist for the FBI’s Behavioral Science Department.  

He opens his mouth to share the amazing news with Cersei…but as he watches her smudge the cigarette into an ashtray and take a long slug of whiskey, her eyes bloodshot and her nostrils flaring, he thinks better of it.


	27. Cersei/Sansa: Hogwarts AU

Slytherin is down again- Cersei wears a scowl to match the rest of her housemates as she watches Gryffindor House explode into yet another burst of red-and-gold cheer.

She’s trained herself well, but it is difficult to keep a smile off of her face when Jaime sails past, prompting loud hisses and jeers from the Slytherins; he’d scored the goal that gave Gryffindor the lead.  He winks at her, and she purses her lips even tighter- but she knows he sees the gleam of pride in her eyes (and she’ll be sure to give him more effusive congratulations later…).

Gryffindor’s newest Beater, a tall third-year with auburn hair, gets in a good hit, nearly knocking one of the Slytherin Chasers from her broom.  From the bleacher behind her, Cersei hears a peeping little cry: “Oh, well done, Robb!”

All of the nearby Slytherins turn to glare at the little first-year girl who spoke out- Sansa Stark claps her hand over her mouth and blushes brighter than a bowl of cherries, the color clashing dreadfully with her red hair.

As a Slytherin prefect, she ought to summon up her contempt and teach the little turncoat her place.  But she can still remember when Jaime was named to the Gryffindor team (the youngest Chaser in over a century)- that first game, when he scored his first goal against Slytherin, she’d cheered so loudly and jumped so high that she nearly fell from the stands. 

And so she turns around and fixes little Sansa with a dazzling smile, reaching a hand out to touch the fringe of her green-and-silver scarf.  ”This is such a pretty weave- where did you find it?”  
  
Sansa gapes silently for a moment before stuttering, “I-I made it.”

Cersei widens her smile still farther.  ”Beautiful.  Perhaps you’ll make one for me some day?”

“I…of course…”  Sansa’s blush deepens to a pale violet, proceeding to a dark aubergine when Cersei releases her scarf and places her palm on the girl’s knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. 


	28. Jaime and Genna: Regency England

“May I have the honor of a dance, Auntie?”

Lady Genna Frey smiles brightly at her handsome nephew, accepting his outstretched hand and slowly rising from her chair (her ankles have a terrible tendency to swell, especially after she partakes of a lavish feast, like the one her brother commissioned for this evening).  

In spite of her size and age, Genna can still move easily across the floor, and Jaime is one of the finest dancers at court.  As her nephew leads her in a waltz, she laments (not for the first time) that none of her own sons inherited the Lannister beauty or the Lannister grace.   _Plain-faced oafs, the lot of them._ But Jaime shines brighter than the gold-and-ruby buttons on his waistcoat, brighter than the lavish emerald necklaces that Genna had heaped on, layers and layers of glittering  green.  

 _It’s madness, that he has yet to take a wife._ She nearly opens her mouth to ask Jaime about it (for the thousandth time), but she knows that he’ll evade the question as he always does, using his slippery charm to offer a response that is no true answer at all.  

He spins her about, and Genna watches as head after head turns to stare at him.  Ladies, yes- but more than a few gentlemen, too.  She wonders briefly whether that might be the reason for his persistent bachelorhood-  _perhaps he prefers the company of men._ He does seem to be frequently surrounded by comely companions…and there  _was_ that rumor about Lord Byron’s latest poem, the one about the golden-haired warrior god…

They finish the waltz, and Jaime kisses Genna’s hand before crossing the ballroom to where Cersei sits with Lord Robert Baratheon.  She accepts the hand he offers her, and the twins dance together, feet light as air, beautiful as angels.

Genna frowns as her husband approaches the table.  And although there are servants and butlers aplenty, she stops Emmon before he sits and orders him to fetch her another glass of wine. 


	29. Jaime/Sansa: Modern-Day, Ned Arrests Jaime

“That’s all I’m saying until my lawyer gets here, Stark.”

Jaime can’t keep his lips from twitching with a grin when Ned Stark sets his jaw and narrows his eyes in a venomous glare.  But the sheriff knows there’s nothing else he can do- he slams the barred door of the tiny temporary cell they’ve built in the pitiful excuse for a jailhouse and marches back out to his office.

Jaime takes a seat on the rickety metal bench and leans back against the wall, whistling some song he’d heard on the radio the day before.   _You owe me one, Tyrion._ His nineteen-year-old brother had asked if he could bring a few friends to the family summer house, where Jaime had recently taken up residence.  He failed to mention that “a few friends” meant “every kid who lived in his dorm building and all of their friends and girlfriends and boyfriends and pets”.  And Jaime  _could_  have chosen to kick them all out and give Tyrion a stern talking-to…but he picked the buy-the-kids-a-bunch-of-kegs-and-maybe-some-drugs-too route instead.  

Of course, the cops came to break the party up.  And of course Jaime took the fall for Tyrion- he WAS the “adult” there, after all.  Also, Father would be far more likely to forgive Jaime for such behavior than his little brother…and he’d be quicker about sending the family attorney up to this northern shore-town to get his oldest son out of jail.

The summer house has been in the family for generations- it’s more of an estate, really, and although they’re only part-time residents at best, the Lannisters own a larger percentage of the town’s land than any other family.  Jaime’s interest in the sleepy village had always been scarce; he preferred the city, the fast pace, the huge duplex loft that he used to share with his sister.  But then she left, took that job in Paris- “I’m sorry”, she’d told him, but he didn’t believe her…there was that glow in her eyes, always that ambition, that reminder that he would never be enough, that THEY would never be enough.  After he watched her board the plane, Jaime knew that he couldn’t go back to the loft- being there without her would drive him mad.  And so he called for one of his father’s drivers and had them bring him here.

A hinge creaks, and Jaime turns to look at the door on the side wall.  A glimpse of red hair, blue eyes, pale skin- he grins broadly and rises from his bench.  ”Working late tonight, Sansa?”

The sheriff’s daughter tiptoes to his cell, tossing several anxious glances over her shoulder to the door of her father’s office.  She grabs hold of the flimsy, wide-set bars of the cell door, and Jaime closes his hands over her fists, leaning his face forward until a wayward lock of golden hair falls over his brow.  

Sansa Stark has proven a pleasant diversion from his thoughts of Cersei, from the tedium of his seclusion, from the echoing emptiness of the mansion on the shore.  He met her on the beach outside his house; she’d been taking photographs on the main beach and accidentally wandered onto his property.  She’d looked so pretty in her blue sundress, red hair blowing about her face and the charmingly old-fashioned camera around her neck…and he’d been so alone for so many days, so many nights…

He’d kissed her that evening, in front of the little fire he helped her make on the sand.  He asked to see her again, she agreed- then kissing turned to touching turned to fucking.  Jaime doesn’t know how old she is- truth be told, he’s afraid to ask.  She’s young, that much is obvious- probably Tyrion’s age, possibly even younger (and that thought makes his stomach roil, so he pushes it away).  But she’s sweet and smart and pretty and willing, and that’s what he needs at the moment.

He’d been amused to learn that Sansa’s father was Ned Stark, the grim-faced, humorless, self-important sheriff of this podunk town.  And he was even more amused when she told him that she works part-time as an office assistant at the station; he likes to pick her up from work, meeting her at the door instead of waiting for her in the car, kissing her under the bright lamp lights in the parking lot- “What if my father sees?”, she always asks, but he thinks she likes the risk as much as he does.

“What happened, Jaime?” she asks him now, her eyes wide as a Kewpie doll’s.  

“It’s nothing.  I’ll be out before morning,” he answers in his most cavalier tone.  A quick glance over her shoulder reveals Ned Stark typing up a report.  His back is to the windowed door, but he’ll have to turn to reach the printer…

“Come here,” he whispers to Sansa, bringing his face between the bars.  She hesitates, but he sees the bright blush forming on the apples of her cheeks…it won’t take long.

She finally leans in, and he kisses her soft pink lips, tasting the strawberry lip gloss she always uses.  He tilts his head just enough to get a good view of the window- Ned Stark is turning toward the printer…all he needs to do is look up…

As the sheriff locks eyes with his prisoner, Jaime slips his tongue past Sansa’s lips and laughs into her mouth.   


	30. Cersei, Jaime, Melara: "Girl, Interrupted"

She had told Melara to tongue her meds and meet her after the midnight bed checks.   _Probably thinks we’re gonna play hide and seek in the tunnels again, the idiot._ But Cersei has something much more interesting in mind.

She discovered the underground passage last week, the one leading directly to the men’s wing, but she kept the information under her hat, waiting for the right time.  She wishes that she had someone more entertaining to bring than dull, stupid Melara- but Taena is confined to the ward, and all of the other girls are either blotto or schizoid, and she doesn’t want to bother with any of them.

When Melara finally shows up (ten minutes and forty-five seconds late), Cersei has almost finished getting dressed.  She doesn’t look behind her, but she can hear Melara’s sharp gasp when she catches sight of Cersei’s newly-shorn hair.

"I’ve been hiding a razor in my mattress," Cersei mutters through gritted teeth, answering the question before Melara has a chance to ask.  She pulls a red and gold rugby shirt over her bound breasts and sticks a sock in her crotch before zipping up the fly on a pair of tight-fitting Levi’s.

"Wow, Cersei," Melara breathes dreamily, “you’re really hot as a guy."

Melara steps closer and places a hand on the small of Cersei’s back, her touch hesitant as she slides her palm lower and lower-

Cersei whirls around, gripping Melara’s wrist and twisting until the other girl whimpers with pain.

"Don’t touch me," she growls, pitching her voice as low as she can manage.  She releases Melara’s arm, and as her companion hunches her shoulders and holds her bruised wrist to her chest, Cersei leans close.  She can see the reflection of her own blazing green eyes in Melara’s muddy brown ones as she hisses,

"Jaime.  My name is Jaime."


	31. Tywin/Joanna: Gilded Age

Investing in the railroads appeals to her not at all; it’s dirty work, all built on the backs of the poor and downtrodden, slicked in soot and sweat and blood.  Tywin tells her of the proposal with a twinkle in his eye, the rush of ambition bringing color to his cheeks.

Joanna wishes sometimes that her husband might find a way to content himself with family money, to make safe and staid investments in foreign banks and spend his days hunting and drinking scotch and playing croquet.  She nearly says as much to him when he declares his intention to go West and inspect the progress of the railroad through the plains…

But as he speaks, Tywin’s lips curve into a smile, that rarest and most beautiful of sights.  And so she remains quiet, offering nods that could pass for approval and returning his kiss when he takes her in his arms.


	32. Jaime/Sansa: Modern Hollywood

"Those asshole journalists are getting really fucking aggressive."

Jaime shucks his Armani blazer off and tosses it to the floor before falling into an armchair.  He can't stand the Chateau Marmont- all pretentious posers and strung-out starlets- but damn if those chairs aren’t comfortable.

"Petyr said that would happen," Sansa replies as she bends over to retrieve his blazer and hang it up on the coat rack.  He winces at the mention of Sansa’s agent- God, he hates that smarmy son of a bitch.  Sansa doesn’t miss it; she offers him a smile that appears nearly apologetic (but not quite).

She has already changed out of her premiere dress and into a nightgown and matching bathrobe.  Her face is freshly-washed; without the makeup, she looks painfully young (which bothers Jaime more than he’d care to admit) but also exquisitely sweet and clean (which arouses Jaime more than he’d care to admit).

"They all want to know if you’re really “hooking up" with Harry Hardyng," Jaime says, waving his fingers in exaggerated air quotes.

"Do they?" Sansa’s lips quirk up into a smile, and she takes a step closer to his chair, then another.  “I bet you shut that down right quick."

"Damn straight," he purrs as she settles in his lap and slides a hand into his hair, her well-manicured nails scratching his scalp until he closes his eyes and lets his annoyance dissolve away.


	33. Cersei/Jaime/Catelyn: Lady In Waiting

Ser Jaime arrives at his sister’s bedroom door in the late morning, as he always does.  Her ladies and his sworn brothers believe that he escorts the Queen to the sept for her prayers on these occasions…but, of course, he actually takes her to the storeroom in the rear tower, where he bends her over barrels of grain and fucks her raw.

His cock begins to stiffen with anticipation as he raps on her door.  The low, sensual tone of her voice when she tells him to enter only intensifies the desire, and he swings the door open-

But Cersei is far from ready to depart for the “sept".  She still lies abed, her smile sweet and sleepy, the morning sunlight glittering in her hair as she stretches and sighs.

Another figure lies atop Cersei’s bed cushions; from his vantage point in the doorway, Jaime can see only Lady Catelyn’s long, white limbs and her nest of ruddy hair. 

He opens his mouth to demand an explanation from his sister, but Cersei puts her finger to her lips and gives him a soft “Shh."

"She’s still sleeping," his sister whispers as she moves closer to Lady Catelyn.  She curls her lithe body around the other woman’s and smiles up at Jaime before kissing Catelyn’s mussed hair and gently palming her full breasts.

Rage and indignation burn hot and bright in Jaime’s cheeks- taken in combination with his arousal (which has not abated in the least, Gods be damned…if anything, it’s only grown stronger…), the sensations confuse and bewilder him, and he finds that he cannot stand there for a moment longer.

"I’ll come back for you later," he huffs, stepping backwards out of the doorway and pushing the door shut.

Cersei’s laughter chimes through the air, bright and sweet and stinging, and it follows him all the way down the corridor.


	34. Jaime/Sansa: Roman Gladiator and Domina

"Why have you not branded me?"

The question startles his domina; she drops the buckle to his breastplate and stares up at him with knitted brows and stormy eyes.

Every other man who enters the ring bears the ink- “SPQR" always, along with the sigil of whatever noble house claims him as their property.  But while Jaime has the mark of the Republic burned onto the nape of his neck, he wears no emblem of House Stark.

"Would you like me to have you branded?" Sansa asks him, her voice light and quiet.  It’s a strange tendency of hers, to speak to him as though he were not her slave, not an object to own, but a person of equal station.  

( _She knows what I am_ , he often worries, but even if she does, even if she knows all about Jaime of House Lannister, descended from wealth and power and esteem, she makes no mention.  Not ever.)

He considers how to answer her question.  A part of him wants to say yes, wants to toss aside the remains of his old self and his old life and his old humanity, to become only an empty husk, something used for sport and decoration and nothing more.

But instead, he utters a single syllable: “No."

She smiles, that peculiar, unfathomable smile of hers, and she reaches for the buckle once more, pulling until it comes undone and the breastplate crashes to the ground.  She snakes her pale arms around his waist and rests her cheek on his bare chest, over the newly-healed scars from his last session in the arena.

He keeps his arms at his side, even as she peppers his chest with soft kisses.  For there are rules to this, even if she wishes to ignore them- he isn’t to touch his domina without her express permission.

But when she guides his hands around her back to cup her arse, he decides that is permission enough.  


	35. Arya/Tommen: Modern-Day Roommates

He wakes when he hears his mattress squeak- at first, he snuggles his face back into his pillow and closes his eyes, sure that he must have shifted in his sleep to make the noise…but then, another jostle and squeak, and he sits up straight with a startled cry.

She perches on the edge of his mattress, her slim body framed by the moonlight pouring in through his window.  She wears a ribbed cotton undershirt and a pair of boxer shorts; he thinks that he can see her dark nipples peeking out through the white fabric, and his cock immediately goes hard as stone.

That’s the reason he started locking his door at night in the first place- he has had a tendency to sleepwalk since he was a child, and it’s difficult enough to be around Arya in the daylight without accidentally poking her with his boner.  He hates to think what embarrassing shit he might get up to while sleeping…

"How did you get in here?" he asks, hastening to pile blankets and pillows on top of his crotch.

But he doesn’t fool Arya; her lips twist in a smile as she holds something out to him: a slightly-bent bobby pin.

"You really should try the deadbolt next time," she says with a laugh, and Tommen holds his breath as she inches closer and begins to remove the pillows from his lap one by one.


	36. Cersei/Sansa: Marriage Equality

Father doesn’t like it at all.  She’s replacing “one perversion with another", he insists- this might keep people from whispering about her relationship with her brother, but to Father’s conservative mind, having his daughter come out as a late-in-life lesbian is just as bad.

She snaps at him at first, telling him that he doesn’t have to come to the wedding if it bothers him so much, that she can fund it all without his help (her not-so-dearly-departed husband left her more than enough cash for that).  But she encourages him to consider the importance of keeping Sansa Stark in the fold.  And who better than Cersei to make sure that their rival company’s precious princess behaves herself?

Seducing the girl proved a laughably simple task.  She often wishes that Jaime hadn’t been on military duty for the duration of the courtship; he might have been amused by her stories of easy conquest.

(Although she knows in the marrow of her bones that he wouldn’t be amused one little bit.)

Father agrees to attend the ceremony, but he refuses to walk her down the aisle.  That’s fine with Cersei; she walks on her own, with nothing to distract the guests from how exquisitely beautiful she looks in her Vera Wang dress.

Sansa comes down the aisle after Cersei, clad in a pretty, ruffled gown from Monique Lhullier.  Cersei’s son Joffrey escorts the bride; Sansa’s muscles are stiff as she tries to keep as much distance between herself and Joffrey as possible.

When she arrives at last, Cersei takes her tiny hands, and they recite the vows that Cersei wrote for them.  The Justice of the Peace pronounces them wed, and Cersei lifts Sansa’s gauzy veil and takes the girl’s face between her palms.

Sansa’s innocence vexes Cersei under normal circumstances, but it suits her impossibly well today; she’s radiant, pink-cheeked and fresh, and her lips quiver- perhaps with nerves, but possibly, Cersei thinks, with anticipation.

She leans forward to kiss Sansa, and as the crowd bursts into applause, Cersei slips her tongue into her bride’s mouth, laughing against her lips when Sansa gasps and makes a sweet little sound at the back of her throat.


	37. Jaime/Sansa: Circus Performers

She’s been walking the tightrope all her life, and in spite of the apparent dangers, she finds it calming.  Achieving the necessary balance helps her to weigh her thoughts and center her focus, and she feels sometimes that she’d like to stay up on the rope forever.

(The world below is so much more dire and precarious, and it is so much harder to find balance there.)

But the trapeze…that’s something else entirely.

She stands on the launch deck with the trapeze bar clutched so tightly between her fingers that her knuckles turn white.  Her breaths come quick and shallow, and she closes her eyes; in the darkness, her thoughts buzz and whirr and swirl into chaos until she’s sure that she will vomit.

"Just jump!" Jaime calls to her.  He swings upside down on his trapeze, his knees bent over the bar.  There’s a hint of sadness in his voice, and she wonders whether he used to coach his sister like this, back when they were partners.

He swings back and forth like a pendulum, graceful and golden and beautiful.  She feels a magnetic pull urging her toward him; she bends her knees, holds her breath, and leaps.

"You need to flip now," he calls, and she groans in anguish.  It looks so easy when Jaime does it (but, of course, she knows that it isn’t, knows that he spends hours each day training, trying to regain his old finesse now that he has only one hand to work with).

Her heart pounds in her ears as she pulls herself up and draws her knees in.  When she finally swings them over the bar and drops her arms down, she sighs with relief, a lightness spreading through the space between her eyes.

"All right, you have to reach for me now."  She can see him gliding in her direction, and she haplessly sticks her arms straight out.  He grabs hold of her right wrist, but then has to let go when she swings in the opposite direction.

"You need to grab hold of _me,"_ Jaime says in a chastising tone.  “Especially on your left side…don’t wait for me to grab you, because I-"

"I can’t" sticks in his throat, but she can hear it as surely as if he’d spoken.

"Try it again."  Their trapezes fly toward each other, and Jaime reaches his arms out-

Sansa grabs hold of his wrists, feeling the fingers of his left hand wrapping around her right forearm, and she pushes away from her own trapeze with a squeaking cry of triumph.

"Very good," he whispers in her ear as he tugs on her right arm, urging her upward.  She pulls herself up on her left side until they’re face to face, he upside down and she right side up.

She kisses him as they sail through the air, back and forth and back and forth.


	38. Jaime/Cersei: Merpeople

Cersei likes to play the boat game, but she cannot do it without him.  It vexes her to no end, the fact that she cannot manage to tip the rowboats by herself, that the wiry strength in her arms is no match for the power in his own sculpted muscles. 

When he forces himself to be honest, the game turns Jaime’s stomach.  This isn’t battle, not really- there’s no challenge to be had.  Once the rowers tumble into the water, he only needs to keep their shoulders down while Cersei holds their legs in place.  Then just a few minutes of waiting, and the end.

But once the game is through and he helps Cersei bury their kills in the cave below the grotto, she swims into the circle of his embrace, her body soft and warm and perfect against his.  And he thinks in that instant that it’s all worth it, for there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her like this.


End file.
